House of Glass
by Aima D. Duragon
Summary: Harry had been told that they needed to attend this party. He'd been told. Not asked. It seemed like he was rarely asked anything anymore. [HP/DM...mostly]


**A/N:** So I've bitten the bullet. I've joined the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition. Sort of a spur of the moment decision, but I think I'll have quite a bit a fun with it. If anyone is interested in the specific rules I can forward them along, but the basis of it is that we will receive one major prompt every two weeks which will be the theme/direction of the current round, and then (for my position specifically) I can choose up to three optional prompts to incorporate into the story to get bonus points. Or, at least, I think that's how it works. I'm obviously new! The hardest part for me will definitely be the word count limit...only 3000 words! Guh!

 **Round 1**

 **Prompt:** NOTP (I had to write one of my teammate's NOTP). In this case, her NOTPs were Harry/Hermione and Harry/Draco.

 **Optional Prompts:** (song) Dollhouse by Melanie Martinez and (word) apple

* * *

Harry had been told that they needed to attend this party.

He'd been told. Not asked. It seemed like he was rarely asked anything anymore.

Harry huffed around a tight smile as cameras flashed so brightly and ceaselessly that his world seemed comprised of nothing but flickering lights. He seemed to be floating through them as he drifted along the length of the red carpet, his hand firmly pressed against Hermione's lower back. Her muscles were firm against the flat of his palm, their structure as hard and unforgiving as marble. He wondered if she could feel the biting chill of his wedding band against her bare skin. He wondered if hers was equally cold as she held firm to the shoulder of their daughter, Melanie.

"Mr. Potter!" One of the photographers yelled. Harry's eyes honed in on him, catching on a head of blond hair. His throat strained against the tie knotted around his collar, making it hard to swallow. "Mr. Potter, look over here!"

Not him. Harry released a heavy breath. Not him.

"Is it true what all the papers are saying?" the man continued, his camera giving another precursory click and flash. "About what happened at the Puddlemere pitch last week?"

Harry's pulse stuttered at the base of his throat as he felt the wall of Hermione's back grow impossibly thicker.

"Harry," Hermione hissed. He turned to look at her and it took every amount of self-control he possessed not to flinch. Even with fury raging in her eyes she was still devastatingly beautiful—so different from the bushy-haired, buck-toothed girl he'd fallen in love with so many years ago. The angles of her face had grown mature and refined, sculpting out an aesthetic splay of softly curved lines. Every inch of her was locked perfectly into place: contained. Only Harry was close enough to see the smudge of lipstick at the corner of her mouth. "Come on."

Nodding, Harry ushered his family through the revolving glass doors of the British Quidditch League Hall. Once inside, they were met by a swarm of people, all dressed to the nines. No expense was spared for the annual Quidditch Ball, and Harry surveyed the gaudily draped jewels and diamond-encrusted championship rings that littered the foyer with an unveiled grimace. Even Hermione had ornamented herself with a heavy string of pearls. They sat against the jut of her collarbone, silently proclaiming their weight.

A wave of whispers swept through the room as Harry felt the attention of the crowd shift towards them. Instinctually, he stepped in front of Hermione and Melanie, plastering a wide grin on his face. "Hello, mates. Didn't miss any of the fun, did I?"

A few of them murmured indistinct responses, but Harry didn't pay them any mind. Grabbing Hermione's hand, he maneuvered them towards the back of the foyer and flagged down one of the attendants. They were promptly ushered down the corridor into the grand ballroom and where Harry may have once paused to survey the unbelievable grandeur, now he merely brushed past it.

The ballroom was littered with tables, each of them covered in swathes of creamy silk and engorged roses. Gold and silver place settings ringed the table rims, surrounded by precisely measured lines of silverware. It was a ripe display of wealth and overabundance, and despite the tailor-made robes that Harry wore, he felt distinctly out of place.

They found their assigned table—near the front, of course—and Harry pulled out chairs for his wife and daughter. The seat he chose for himself positioned his back towards the stage at the head of the hall. He had no desire to participate in whatever festivities the Quidditch League had prepared for them tonight. No doubt they hoped to gift them with more trophies and awards—more useless trinkets that were good for nothing except gathering dust on shelves.

"We shouldn't have done that," Hermione said, her voice low and acidic. "We shouldn't have run away from them. We have no reason to."

Harry's eyes shifted to Melanie, who was already bent over the small notebook she'd tucked into the pocket of her dress. Pursing his lips, he shifted his attention back to Hermione. "We didn't run."

"Then why are we the first ones in here?" She gestured at the empty room. "Except for the press, of course, which is just what we need right now."

"The press—?" Harry swiveled in his chair, his eyes catching on a long rectangular table in the back partially obscured by a long curtain. Quick-Quotes Quills swished furiously as the table's occupants mouthed words Harry couldn't decipher. The only thing he knew was that they were all looking at him.

Then he saw it: the flash of silver eyes and the stretch of thin lips into a perfectly constructed sneer. Harry's pulse stumbled to a stop.

Clenching his teeth together to keep the panic off of his face, Harry turned back to Hermione. "We should leave."

Hermione's eyes narrowed. In this light, they gleamed like petrified wood. "What?"

"Come on. You know this thing is going to be boring. Mumbath is going to drone on for hours and we'll all be wilting in our chairs before he's done."

"Harry, we can't leave."

Harry scraped his tongue against his teeth to keep his frustration from tainting his words. "Why not?"

"We _discussed_ this." With a jerk of her chin, Hermione raised her hand and snapped her fingers. One of the waiters, who had been hovering at the edge of the room, was at her side in the span of a blink.

"Give me three fingers of your finest scotch," Hermione said coolly. "Neat."

The man nodded before turning to Harry. Harry shook his head, waving the waiter off, his gaze refusing to leave his wife.

"'Mione..." He reached out for her, his hand sliding over hers. He was somewhat surprised to find her skin warm to the touch. "You promised you wouldn't."

She didn't recoil immediately. Not here. Instead, he watched as every muscle in her body grew rigid, as if the briefest of meaningful contact between them fundamentally repulsed her. He often wondered when she first started to resent him—to see him as something other than the man she'd fallen in love with. Something unwanted.

Slowly, she withdrew her hand from his. "We both promised a lot of things," she whispered.

Harry flinched back, and out of his peripheral he saw Melanie's head peek up, her dark eyes—so like her mother's—studying them for the briefest of moments before returning to her notebook. Heat rose up Harry's throat and into his cheeks, but he couldn't quite tell if it was from embarrassment or anger. Maybe it was a mixture of both.

Heart pounding against his sternum, Harry pushed his chair back and stood. "I'm going to go get some air." He left the table without waiting for a reply. He knew he wouldn't get one.

His feet lead him across the span of the ballroom, every cell in his bloodstream vibrating as he drew closer to the exact place he knew he shouldn't be going. He should've learned his lesson last week when the article came out. He'd sworn to himself that it would all end with that headline—that he wouldn't give anyone another reason to torment him and his family.

"Hello, Potter."

Harry stopped dead, his throat bobbing as the breath he'd just taken refused to travel to his lungs. Draco Malfoy stood barely a metre in front of him, his lips forming a smile that was a touch too saccharine. His robes were immaculate, the deep emerald cloth showing off the neat taper of his waist and the long lines of his limbs only to be offput by the laminated press badge that hung around his neck.

A green apple was cradled in the fingers of his left hand, and he brought the fruit up to his mouth slowly, his eyes never once leaving Harry's as he sank his teeth into its flesh. There was a defined snap as the flesh of the apple broke, and Harry saw only the briefest flash of a pink tongue before the fruit disappeared into Draco's mouth. Something about it made Harry's pulse quicken.

"So, what brings you over to this side of the ballroom?" Draco asked in a voice smooth as silk. "Curious about how the other half lives?"

Harry wrinkled his nose. "You're hardly what anyone would consider the other half, Malfoy."

Draco took another bite from his apple and shrugged.

It took a considerable amount of effort for Harry not to follow the ripple that traveled down the column of Draco's throat as he swallowed. With a raised brow, Draco lifted his chin, exposing more of the creamy skin that rested just beneath, as if he knew what Harry's eyes craved. Grimacing, Harry stepped in closer and a small thrill ran through him when he saw Draco resist the reflex to step back. "I came over here because we need to talk."

A muscle feathered in Draco's jaw. "Fine," he said. "Over here."

Draco lead them to a small alcove, hidden away from the rest of the room by a thick draping of curtain. It looked to be a part of the back hall that the staff used to enter and leave the room.

Taking another bite of his apple, Draco folded himself delicately against the wall. "So what's this really about then?"

Harry took in a deep breath and pushed it back out again. For some reason he couldn't quite bring himself to meet Draco's gaze. "Did you write that article?" The words came out rushed and scrunched too close together.

"Come again?"

"Was it you?" Harry asked, careful to keep his words slow this time. "That article in the Prophet?"

Draco bristled. "Is that what you think?" His voice was as cold and brittle as winter's first freeze.

"How could anyone else possibly have known?"

"You should know better than most that there are eyes everywhere." Draco tossed his apple aside and pushed himself away from the wall. The movement left him far too close for comfort. Harry could practically taste the apple's pomaceous flavor in Draco's breath.

"That article had details— _private_ details—"

"I didn't write it, Potter," Draco hissed. "Though you're making me wish that I had. You fucked me once in the showers. That's it. You think half the blokes that are coming here haven't done the same thing behind their wives' backs? Don't flatter yourself. You don't hold the monopoly on infidelity in this room. You were just the story that would sell the most print."

Draco's words hit him like the quick lash of a whip. Pain bubbled in his stomach and surged up his throat, hot and burning. He made to recoil, but Draco caught him by the arm before he could make the step.

"What did you expect?" Draco's fingers dug into his bicep, and Harry could feel how his nails ached to pierce through the cloth. "That they wouldn't dare touch you because of who you are?"

"Stop it, Malfoy," Harry whispered, heat and pressure warring just behind his eyes. "Let me go."

"You and Granger have always made quite the pretty picture together. She looks exquisite tonight, by the way. I bet you're the only man here who didn't notice."

" _Stop_ it!"

"How did she react when she read the article? Did she act like she didn't believe it? But no, Granger has always been clever hasn't she. I'll bet she's known for a while. I'll bet she knew even before you did. Is that why she drinks? Is that why—"

Harry's fist swung, hard and blindingly fast, connecting with Draco's cheek with the sickening sound of skin meeting bone. Draco staggered back, his hands flying to his face and his grey eyes flashing a predatory warning. Harry's entire body seemed to swell around him, ignited by fury.

"Don't you dare talk down about Hermione like that," Harry snarled. "She's none of your business."

A thin stream of blood dribbled between Draco's fingers. "I'm a journalist. Everything is my business."

Harry surged forward, and Draco barely had a moment to react before Harry was slamming him against the wall, his arm pressed against Draco's throat. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Says the man who is currently assaulting me."

"How the hell can you talk to me like this? Like what happened between us was nothing? Like that article didn't affect you just as much as it affected me?"

Something dark flickered across Draco's gaze. His face didn't move and yet his expression seemed to turn itself inside out. It was like he was seeing Harry for the very first time. "Merlin, you're really…?"

His breath was soft as a caress against Harry's nose. It sent a pleasant wave of warmth across Harry's skin, skittering to the back of his neck and trickling down the length of his spine. Draco shifted against him, and Harry couldn't help but remember the last time he'd had the other man this close.

"Yes?" Harry pressed.

"Potter, I didn't know." Draco shook his head. "You have to know that I didn't know. I wouldn't have let you—I really thought you and Granger were…"

Harry didn't have the strength to make him finish. He knew what the words were. He'd known for some time now. But it was too late to speak them. He'd made so many promises…

"Potter?"

It was only then that Harry realized that he'd been staring at Draco's mouth. Blood rushed into his cheeks as he forced his eyes back up.

"You really should be getting back to your table," Draco said softly.

Draco was right. Harry knew that he was right, and yet his feet refused to move. All he could manage to do was remove his arm from Draco's throat. "Just tell me one thing."

"Potter..."

"Tell me why you came and talked to me that day on the pitch."

Draco's mouth pinched into a thin line.

"Tell me," Harry demanded.

"There wasn't a reason."

"Bullshit!"

"It's not bullshit!" Draco flared. "I don't know why I walked over to you. I just did. You were just sitting there all by yourself and you looked younger than I'd seen you look in years, and I thought—" Draco snapped his mouth shut, realizing he'd already said too much.

Harry crowded in closer, his hands rising on their own accord to slide around either side of Draco's neck. Draco was stiff as a board beneath his touch, but something about it felt different than when he touched Hermione—like Hermione had built a wall to keep herself in where Draco had built a wall to keep everyone else out. Harry's thumb brushed along smooth skin, and he could feel Draco's pulse like the beat of a hummingbird's wings.

"Please," Harry pleaded. "I need to know. You _know_ why I need to know."

There was something shattered in the release of Draco's next breath. "I thought that you looked so young—so very young—and I remembered that those years when you were young...were the worst years of your life. And they were the worst of mine. And maybe...maybe I know what it's like to feel like those years haven't ended yet."

For a moment, Harry could do nothing but stare, if only because he'd never thought that anyone else would be able to see it. He never told Hermione about the nightmares that still plagued him, or about the visits he still made to gravesites. How could he? They'd made it through together. They had a family. The world was supposed to have righted itself, and Harry wasn't supposed to be feeling...whatever it was he was feeling now. He didn't dare name it. It was too dangerous to name.

And yet there was no denying the way that danger drew him in, tilting his head and filling his blood with something intoxicatingly sweet. He couldn't resist it.

"Potter...don't—" Was the only plea that Draco could make before their lips met.

For a moment the world went still; silently and achingly still. And then Draco's lips parted beneath his own, and it was like a struck match meeting tinder. Harry's heart soared as Draco melted against him, his fingers carding through his hair and pulling him impossibly closer.

Something about it felt like breathing after being underwater for too long. The pressure in his chest that had been growing for so long he'd forgotten it existed, released, and Harry swore he was floating. Drifting off the floor upwards towards the stars.

"Daddy?"

In the span of an instant, Harry felt the world crash around him. He shoved himself away from Draco, panic rushing up his throat like bile as he turned to find Melanie standing just behind them. He only had a moment to catch her eyes, already wet and gleaming, before she raced off around the corner back into the ballroom.

"Shit," Draco breathed, his hands falling back to his sides.

Harry couldn't breathe. He turned back to face Draco, but that only seemed to make things worse. "I'm sorry," Harry choked out.

A shutter closed behind Draco's expression as he retreated back behind his wall. "Tell her whatever you need to."

"Draco, I—"

"Go, Potter. We have nothing more to say to one another."

Abruptly, Harry turned, refusing to let Draco see the tears welling up in his eyes as he took off after his daughter.

* * *

 **A/N:** Thanks for reading!


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